


fragile

by CrystallizedInsomniac



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: Blood and Injury, Gender-Neutral Character, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Hand Jobs, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:28:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27339445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrystallizedInsomniac/pseuds/CrystallizedInsomniac
Summary: There is no way to sugarcoat it: Mammon looks likeshit, and the bruises across his body are oh, so inviting—he's practicallybeggingfor it.
Relationships: Main Character/Mammon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Mammon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Reader
Comments: 37
Kudos: 295





	fragile

**Author's Note:**

> writing wise this is a bit different than my other stuff, but i hope y'all like it! i had fun writing it. i tried to keep it as gender-neutral as possibly, if you need me to change the tags (or add anything to it), please let me know and i'll gladly do it.

You think you've read it in a book once. Something about how that ingrained _fight or flight_ instinct just kicks in when you're in deep shit. Something about how you'll most likely end up moving or attaching yourself to something that gives you dopamine or is comforting—which is bullshit, considering your current circumstances.

Your D.D.D will not give you the answers you seek, even as you keep thumbing away at it, light dimmed and eyes squinting at the knock-off version of a search engine that demons got up in here.

Of course there's links to (demon) cat videos, and (demon) asmr cooking channels—which if you don't look at the ingredients _too_ closely you can enjoy it for what it is—and also their own version of pornhub (and maybe you close that tab once your eyes read the _Human_ category and try not to think too hard on the possibility that out of six brothers _one_ of them could be the secret human-fucker).

There is a search result for almost everything. _Almost_.

Because there isn't a single article on how to cope when you're literally dragged from your own bedroom into hell and forced to relive your worst school years. 

_What to do when the prince of hell drags you into his dumb pet-project and forces you to live with six hot demons dudes that seem to want to end your very existence if you looked at them the wrong way?_ gives absolutely no helpful results.

But _hey_ —now you know that _Deviltwit_ users go on a weekly massive voting poll that is all focused around how big Diavolo's tits looked like in whatever shirt he wore that day.

(You make an account, takes you less than two minutes really, and decide that _hey_ , maybe you can do something good for the citizens of the Devildom that clearly love their prince so much. He keeps inviting you to his castle for a weekly meeting of tea and gossip and genuine concern for your involvement around school, so you have unrestricted access to said chest.)

All in all, you've cried maybe three times in the span of two weeks, accidentally offended Asmodeus the other day and made him cry (you make a mental note to apologize, when the angels are around of course because you're not _blind_ you see the way he looks at you, like you're food and well you don't exactly put out on the first date), and of course have done nothing more than follow along with whatever crazy scheme Mammon has tried to pull off, followed by Leviathan begrudgingly following after the two because turns out those two actually like each other—let it be known that you _can_ bring out the good in people..er...demons.

As it stands, it's honestly a big surprise for you when you realize that it's taken you _this_ long to finally panic. The day had started off feeling wrong, like when you know it's going to rain despite the sky being clear, and it wasn't until you had finally retired to bed from a long Friday of constant "trying not to look like you're still out of your element here" that you noticed just how high-strung your felt.

It went from realizing you couldn't sleep, to hyperventilating, some _very_ ugly crying followed by tossing and turning and finally, the grim realization that you _couldn't_ sleep.

Your brain was just _now_ coming to terms with the fact that you were scared shitless. Coping mechanisms were never your forte, and Lucifer's warnings of not running around the house after dark was set to the back of your mind, much to the chagrin of your self-preservation instincts. 

It didn't take your feet long to carry you to the living room, where upon entering you couldn't help but notice that it was—blessedly—empty.

You don't think too hard about the fact that these demons seem to have actual sleep schedules that they respect, and instead sigh with relief when you come into the realization that you're _alone._

The living room, with how big it is, is nothing short of the perfect place for you to hide and hopefully calm down. Your brain thinks that hiding in plain sight would be perfect, there's so much shit in here that even if one of them were to walk into the living room right now, they'd probably miss you. Probably.

The floor beneath your bare-clad feet is grounding, even as you wrap your arms around yourself and stumble your way carefully through the dark.

You manage to only bump into three things before your vision adjusts enough in the dark that you can make sense of your current location in the room. 

The fireplace stands in front of you, the smell of burning wood is potent here and slightly comforting, you feel your shoulders droop a little—the tension in your body slowly leaving with each exhale of air you let out. When you move forward and you feel the soft rug under your feet, you have half-a-mind to call it a night and just curl up right then and there and sleep. The couch would be an ideal cover, resting right behind you, if someone were to walk way they wouldn't see you.

Still, you make your way to the left. There's a little corner where a personal sofa stands with a coffee table right next to it. The position is meant to give a somewhat enclosed, personal feel, and you know Satan likes to curl up here and read.

You think twice before sitting down on it, and instead opt to crawl under the coffee table. The space is small enough and out of the way that you're sure no one can see you here.

Which is perfect.

With a relieved sigh, you slump back against the wall, head tucked into your chest and legs drawn up to your chest. Your eyes look around the dark living-room, and then they linger on the fireplace. Then you stare even harder. How do they turn it on?

(The answer is magic, because of course it fucking is. You just think that maybe they should've been more considerate of the fact that you're _human_ and you can't pull fire out of your ass like they can, and it's _not_ anything to do with you being jealous of that other exchange-student, whatever his name is. He looks like a prick).

A chill draft of air takes this exact moment to pay you a visit, and you have to bite back the pathetic whine that rises in your throat. Karma is but a big bitch and you're ready to fight, as soon as you can get your shit together. 

You're cold.

God you're so dumb. In your haste to leave you suffocating room, you forgot to bring with you a blanket. You resign yourself to this fate. Freezing to death sounds so much better than whatever sadistic punishment Lucifer has threatened you with in the last two weeks or so. Your lips thin out, and you hug yourself closer. Yeah, so much better.

You're too busy lamenting your poor life choices that you don't hear the footsteps coming your way from outside the hallway, neither do you realize the footsteps _inside_ the living-room until you hear a groan, and then the creak of the couch as someone sits down on it. Your eyes move from the fireplace, gaze intent with pure hatred shifts to that of fear with the skip of your own heartbeat as you try to make out the figure sitting down on the couch.

 _It's so fucking dark_.

The person on the couch thinks the same thing, because next thing you know there's a _snap!_ of fingers and then the smell of sulfur. You taste _blue,_ and when you blink the fireplace is cracking with fire and warmth and _wow_ that's actually very nice. 

And oh—

You feel your face flush with warmth that is _definitely_ not due to the fireplace.

It's just Mammon.

Or at least you know it is because of the white markings on his body. You've only seen his demon form twice, and the first time he had been threatening you so of course you weren't too keen on getting an eyeful of all of that skin he was just out here showing.

(You have a brief, delirious, thought, that well it certainly makes sense that he's a model because _god damn_ daddy dearest up there in the sky did _not_ skimp out on the good genes with this one).

As it stands, Mammon is the one sitting on the couch, in front of the fire place. Although... sitting down isn't exactly right—his ass is on the couch, but it's not in that "look at me, I'm hot shit and can make manspreading look sexy as hell" type of way, it looks like he struggled to even get his ass on said couch and went "well, I'm on a soft surface and that's all that matters". It reminds you a lot of your days in college after pulling an all-nighter and crashing the following day thanks to all of the caffeine in your system. 

Even from here, you can tell he looks exhausted. He is also covered in blood and bruises and _oh_ , when he moves to reposition himself you can tell that it _hurts_ to even move because he's wincing. Honest to god _wincing_ , and you know.

You came here to relax, to calm yourself. The picture of what's supposed to be one of the _strongest_ demons in the Devildom looking like he's been chewed out and spit out before being stepped on and then lashed for good measure is doing the opposite of that. The cherry on top is the single fact that he has a clear view of where you're currently curled up into a pathetic little ball of anxiety and _regrets_ and he hasn't _noticed_ you. The same demon that called you on your bullshit a week ago when you said he didn't scare you and he playfully pointed out that he could hear your heartbeat.

Fear has your tongue frozen in place, and your attention and ears all focus in on Mammon's heavy breathing. He's looking right ahead into the fireplace, you see his hands grasping his knees with so much force and gritted teeth that the knuckles are probably white from the strength. But that's all he does.

He stares, breathes, and then just stays perfectly still. 

If it weren't for the way you can see his chest moving and his blinking, you'd think he's dead. You have a very brief thought that his eyes _glow_ , and wow. That's actually pretty.

You consider not moving as well, thinking, well, he hasn't noticed you _yet_ and probably won't if he's as fucked up as he is right now. He'll probably fuck off to his own room to lick his wounds (and god you have so many questions like first of all don't demons have healing abilities? who the hell did he steal from that he's all beat up, and he probably deserved it) and you can sneak into your room again and pretend this all didn't happen.

(You have half-a-mind to ask the white-haired prick exchange-student to teach you magic because um, yeah, this is actually concerning and you're not soo sure you feel too safe with the guy supposed to be looking after you being clearly beat up by someone more powerful than him).

Of course, life doesn't work your way. It never does, you're not sure why you expect it to go otherwise.

Karasu, lovely, ever so helpful Karasu, sends you a notification and your heart drops. You forgot to turn off the notification sounds.

Mammon's whole body goes rigid and his whole body turns so he's looking in your direction. His mouth—full of dangerous, sharp looking teeth that _definitely_ do not make you feel things—is bare to you in a snarl, body hunched over like he's going to leap from the place on his couch, and the glowing blue eyes spell death and _demon_. He looks every ounce the predator, ready to end your pathetic existence in a breath.

Or at least he would look like one.

If it weren't for the way you caught how painful it looked for him to even move, and how the gashes on his torso seemed to have opened up again with blood oozing out and _ew_. The tension in his body is not a threat, doesn't mean he's dangerous—at least not towards you. Mammon looks all like a wounded-animal, not willing to fight for the hell of it, but only if the situation calls for it.

His chest heaves with loud, deep breathing, and you hear what sounds like growling.

"Holy shit." Your mouth says, because it clearly lacks the connection to your brain and self-preservation that you desperately need. 

Mammon is staring at you, but he's not looking _at_ you. At least he isn't until he hears your voice, and something in his eyes shift. A flicker of recognition.

His mouth opens, slack.

"What the—" he begins, blinks. Blinks again. "—fuck."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"What'cha... doing there, human?" He asks, and okay. You can work with that. Confusion. Make it so that your brain can forget the image of what it would look like if Mammon decided to end your whole life, it shouldn't be that hard, right?

Except for the fact that you're still a little awkward around him and the others. So whatever excuse you were going to come up with goes to shit when you say; "I... uh."

Words are clearly your special gift, let it be known that eloquence runs in your blood. 

Mammon raises an eyebrow, and you notice he still hasn't moved from his position. Body still poised like he's ready to strike, you can almost feel the pent up energy from here and wow, now that you're looking at him more clearly his eyes are dilated to all hell, the blue nothing but a glowing ring around the impossible dark.

"You're um..." You try again, when you realize Mammon isn't going to say anything else. The silence is awkward and suffocating and you have to bite back down the flicker of annoyance you're feeling at him right now. This is _your_ hiding spot, he can go lick his own wounds someplace else. You were here first. "Bleeding. That's, um—Blood."

This seems to snap Mammon out of whatever that was, because he rolls his eyes. Huffs (you see him bite back down a groan, and ignore the way he positions himself slowly back into the couch) and says; "Well no shit."

"A lot of it," your mouth keeps going while your brain screams for you to shut up, _please just shut up_.

"Yeah." Mammon grumbles, eyes flickering away from you for a second only to go right back. His lips quirk upwards in a wry smirk. He eyes you from head to toe, "ya scared?"

You feel yourself frown. "No."

Mammon shoots you a disbelieving look, "Right."

"I'm not!" You don't realize you've crawled out from under the table until you sit on your knees and straighten up. Mammon makes a small noise, and you notice his eyes trailing from head to bottom from what he can see. 

"Of course not," Mammon replies, "only dumbasses like ya self would not be scared of demons."

You open up your mouth to argue—probably to say something mean like _you probably deserved all of this you ass_ , or something. But Mammon cuts you off.

"You shouldn't be out late at night," The way he says it makes the hair in the back of your neck rise, and suddenly the fire isn't as warm anymore. Mammon's eyes lazily trail across the room, and he accommodates himself until he let's out a satisfied, if painful, groan. His head rests on the back of the couch, eyes closed, legs spreading further apart (and yes your eyes do flicker that way because it's _leather_ and you're nothing short of a mess and there is nothing wrong in admitting he's attractive). One eye cracks open, just barely, as he drawls out; "don'tcha know it's dangerous for a little human like yourself to wander around in the dark?"

"I couldn't sleep," you sigh. "Sorry."

"What are you apologizing for?" 

You flinch. "S—"

Mammon lets out an exasperated sound, and both eyes open. He's not looking at you, gaze directed at the ceiling. "If you apologize one more time I'll seriously eat ya."

You clench your jaw, can't help the huff of air that leaves your nose in disbelief. "Sure."

Mammon doesn't take too kindly to this because you see his wings flex, agitated. Nothing about him changes save for the tiniest edge on his voice. "Brave lil shit aren't ya?"

"What happened to you?" You blurt out, and then instantly bite your tongue because it sounds like you care. (Maybe you _are_ a bleeding-heart like he said during the first week of class, damnit).

Mammon opens his mouth to reply, and you're expecting him to deflect with a _what's it to ya?_ but he surprises you by remaining silent for a couple of seconds, licking his bottom lip and then bringing one hand to rub the side of his bloodied neck. "Lucifer."

Oh.

Um.

Okay.

"Does it hurt?" A dumb question is better than unpacking whatever that is.

You _really_ don't think three in the morning is the ideal time to talk about the fact that Lucifer's punishment threats aren't just all bark and no bite. 

Mammon grunts. "What does it look like?"

Right.

"Do you need help?" You ask, already standing up and making your way to him. You stand at least six feet away from him, looking down at his form, unsure and nervous.

You're not sure why you're even offering to do _anything_ , you don't even know how to disinfect a wound properly or do stitches. _Does_ he need stitches? You eye the wounds littering his body and decide that yes, he probably does.

Mammon let's out a bark of laughter, loud enough that it makes you jump in place. You only realize now how quiet it is between the two of you. "Unless ya magically learned how to tap into that pathetic well of energy ya humans call magic, then no, you can't help."

"I was just—"

" _I was just_ ," Mammon mocks, and you try not to feel too hurt by the way he's acting. He can be such a big jerk sometimes, you narrow your eyes at him and when he looks at you his expression is almost delightful. "Humans are truly annoying, how come you're so ready to help me out _now_ and not when I needed ya earlier this week for my plan?"

You cross your arms over your chest. "You wanted to sell my _bathwater_."

"Would've made a shitton of grimm out of them desperate fuckers too." Mammon laments. 

You eye Mammon carefully. "Your plans often go wrong."

"Hm." Mammon's gone back to not looking at you, face drowsy. Blue eyes partially hidden behind half-closed lids.

You take another step forward, your foot centimeters away from touching his own leather boots.

"Is this..." _a regular thing? normal? do you just sit in the dark and wait to get healed up? is that how it works?_

"Hm." His eyes fully close, and something shifts in the corner of your eye. 

_Tail_ , that's a tail. You didn't know he had one, don't know _how_ you missed it because it's hard to not not notice it know. Curled around his leg you can see how easily it blends with the leather of his pants, save for the part closest to his back where it goes from a white gradient to the pitch black running downwards.

You don't realize you've crossed any boundaries, gotten closer to him—basically leaning over him—until your face is inches away from him. With his eyes closed and mouth partes just barely to breathe out with difficulty, you think he really can't tell just how close you are.

Yet again, you're reminded of the fact that _he_ is supposed to be your guardian demon and quite frankly he's not selling himself aptly. 

(You wonder if it'd be rude to ask for another brother. Beelzebub is huge, the scary silent type. You can work with that.) 

He has to be in extreme pain to ignore your current distance. Its either that or he doesn't care at all and is just waiting to see what you do. 

Your self-preservation instincts have always been faulty, because there is no logical or sane explanation as to why you're reaching out to run your fingers over the appendage curled around his thigh and down his leg.

Three things happen then:

First, you feel long sharp _claws_ dig into your wrist as a palm wraps around it, pulls you down harshly into the couch—onto Mammon's lap. The action is rough and knocks the air straight out of your lungs.

Second, you grab onto Mammon's shoulder harshly, fingernails digging into what has to be an open wound because it feels impossibly hot and _wet_ with blood. This makes the hold on your wrist tighten to an impossible amount and _it hurts_.

Then finally, someone makes a noise. At first you think it might've been you—if he didn't break your wrist with how forceful his grip is, then clearly his sharp claws have left five identical pricks on your skin—but when you _truly_ open your eyes past the pain, you see Mammon's mouth open in what you realize was _not_ a pained groan, but a _moan_.

You try to pull back, but his other hand grips your waist and keeps you in place. You feel Mammon cant his hips up to you, seeking friction.

Your face flushes when you realize what it is exactly you're feeling under you. You make a small sound, and Mammon's eyes snap open.

They're cloudy and not really _seeing you_. His face is slick with sweat, a flush to his face and skin that looks absolutely _sinful._ His breath comes out in heavy, pained breaths, and if it weren't for the erection grinding up against your own sex you would've easily discarded the moan as one of pain.

Your heart skips a beat. Something in your brain must have packed up and left because your next choice of action is _not_ to apologize and get off his lap, get the hell out of the living room and pretend this never happened.

Oh no. _No,_ you silly little thing. You have to make your life difficult for no other reason than to be a complete moron. 

(If this were your _Hero's Journey_ , then that damned acceptance letter to Diavolo's program would've been your _Call to Adventure._ Deliriously, you can't help but think that _this—_ not leaving when you had the chance, when you weren't sitting on Mammon's lap—is not how the order should be, because this is definitely _The Crossing of the First Threshold_ and not _Refusal of the Call)._

Instead you prod at another bruise, hidden partially behind the scraps of leather he calls an outfit. Mammon hisses through gritted teeth, and then he does it again.

You feel him grind up, bulge of his hard-on rubbing against you and— _fuck_ that actually feels kinda nice.

You don't realize your hands have been moving, pushing, prodding at the wounds on his chest (a lot of them raised skin, clearly having been hit with a belt or a _whip)_ , your breath caught in your throat as if the single action of breathing would make whatever is happening here be cut short. Your eyes are focused between Mammon's face—brows furrowed in discomfort, but the way his eyes shine with _arousal_ and the way he's making _those sounds_ leaves you feeling much like him—and then where your fingers are running across the span of his chest.

His nipples are erect, and when you accidentally rub against one of them as you go on your way to prod at a particular large bruise near his pecs, Mammon _keens._ A whole full-body shiver, and suddenly something in his gaze clears.

"F- _fuck._ " Mammon hisses out, and it's only then that he remembers that he has _two_ hands. The one on your waist leaves and finds itself holding your other wrist. Right above his heart. "The hell you doing?"

"I..." You lick your lips, let out a shake breath. You eye your hands, the caking blood under your fingernails. You shift your gaze to Mammon's, comforted by the fact that he seems to be as affected as you are right now. "I don't know."

You swallow, flex your fingers as much as you can against his chest. His skin is so warm. You know he can probably feel your pulse, what's with the way he's got both your wrists captured by his hands.

"You don't know." Mammon repeats, sounding out of breath and annoyed, and has his voice always been this... husky? You can't quite recall. "For fucks sakes."

You stay quiet. Somewhere, you think you should feel mortified. You think, _god, this is definitely what I was_ not _send to do here._

You press your palm further into his chest, brain running on one thought alone and it's not a very intelligent one either. You've always been good at that—pushing, pushing, and _pushing_ until you get your way. A part of your morbidly curious by the way he seems to be reacting to this. 

You think you should be scared.

You think you should be grossed out (you don't even want to begin unpacking why the sight of Mammon bloodied is making your lower regions feel _hot,_ that's an introspection for another day).

You think _maybe_ you're dreaming, because there is no way you're going to keep going. He's _wounded_ for fuck's sakes.

Mammon breathes heavily, makes another noise—something between a whine and a growl, and _oh_ he looks so nice like this, blushing and _under you._

"You're so fucking weird," Mammon complains, but if it was meant to be insulting it's not really doing it's job. Not with that airy tone his voice has taken, like he can barely catch his breath. Not with the way his hard-on keeps grinding up onto your own heated center. He probably doesn't even realize what's he's doing. "I'm not a science experiment."

You lick your lips. You remember someone, one of the brothers, saying something about Mammon being a masochist.

(And well, you're already here...)

"No, you're not." You agree. You press more into his chest, now using your other hand to do the same on the other side (you notice that he let's you freely move your hands, still keeping them held by his hands, but free to move otherwise), and then you curl your fingers so that your bloodied fingernails catch against his skin. "But you're also enjoying this."

Mammon bristles at this—from embarrassment or anger, you're not really sure—and those wings of his, forgotten for the moment, suddenly make themselves present when they flap agitable. Awkwardly trapped between his back and the couch. Your eyes flicker to them for a split second.

(God the couch is bloodied under him _and_ behind him. You want to see just how bad his back must be.)

This close you can make smell of the blood. _His_ blood.

"I'm not enjoying shit," he says, but when you rake your nails down his chest, _hard_ , his eyelashes flutter and his whole chest arcs upwards towards you and he let's out a breathy moan. 

There is no way to sugarcoat it: Mammon looks like _shit_ , and the bruises across his body are oh, so inviting—he's practically _begging_ for it.

"I think," You lightly trace the marks you've just made. They're not anything compared to the number of bruises and marks he has on his skin, courtesy of Lucifer's punishment (you make a mental note to ask him what he did this around, that is if he doesn't slit your throat open after you're done exploring) but they're there and _you_ made them. He's _letting_ you mark him. The thought should not be this hot, should not be making you _this_ lightheaded and heady. "I think you do, Mammon."

"Fuck off," Mammon hisses. But you notice he's not pushing you away, hasn't stopped trying to get off by humping against you. He could, you know this—he could easily overpower you, push you away. _Hell_ , he has both your wrists caught in his grip and he's not doing _shit_ to stop you from digging your filthy human hands onto his bruised and battered body. 

"I could help you," you say.

Mammon let's out a bark of laughter, it almost sounds hysterical. "You're no healer, cut the bullshit."

You pull one hand back, and surprisingly he let's go. His eyes are focused on your hands, curious to see what they're going to do. You don't raise an eyebrow when his now free hand goes to settle again on your waist, so clearly he's okay with this.

Shitty liar.

Then you carefully trace it down his chest, down his toned abs, past the thin trail of white hair that makes up his happy trail and all the way until your fingers reach the waistband of his leather jeans. The bulge he sports is big, and your mouth goes a little dry at the sight. You're anything but determined, so without hesitating you press your palm against him. 

You look up at Mammon, see the way his eyebrows have shoot up in surprise—clearly at your boldness, because there is _no way_ he didn't realize he's been hard for like ten minutes now—and then you say; "This. I could help you with this."

Mammon opens up his mouth but nothing comes out. You can almost see it, the way his mind processes your words, your meaning. _The hand on his dick_.

Impossibly, his handsome face darkens in the prettiest blush you've had the pleasure of witnessing, and Mammon's gaping like a fish out of water. He seems unable to look at you in the eye then, and the change in demeanor gives you whiplash.

He let's out a huff of breath, looks away from you. Brows furrowed just the tiniest amount, like he's trying to appear annoyed by your request.

"F-fine," and oh, that's a stutter? You try to not laugh at him. "Do whatever the hell ya want, you weirdo."

"Whatever I want?" You squeeze, just the tiniest amount. 

Mammon let's out another sound, eyes closing for a second as he breathes out. When he regains his composure, you notice that he's back to looking a bit more put together, a certain cockiness seeping back into his persona. 

"You should feel _flattered_ ," Mammon puffs his chest out. It almost looks like he's preening (and your brain can't help but think, wow, he _cares_ about your opinion of him. Otherwise he wouldn't go through all this trouble). "I, _The_ Great Mammon, don't just be lettin' _anyone_ feel me up." He eyes you from head to toe, sneers, "specially filthy humans like ya self." 

You instantly decide that you don't like this and would rather have him moaning under you.

_Sure thing bud._

Mammon begins to say _something—_ you're not really sure since you've taken this opportunity to tune him out. He can be so annoying sometimes, and usually his voice is _actually_ pleasant to listen to, but that's not your goal right now. You have a mission to get him to cum now. Because this is your life now.

Your parents would be so proud.

Mammon says something about him being fuckable or something when you unbutton his jeans and pull the fly of his zipper down. It magically does not catch on his erection _—_ although, what's with the way he's reacted to pain so far you think he wouldn't have minded at all _—_ and when you finally get it all the way down, after some brief hesitating, Mammon automatically lifts up his hips so that you shimmy it down just enough so that his cock springs free. His tail unwrapped at some point, curling around your ankle instead. 

(You're not sure how he does this, what's with your weight on top of him. One second you're thinking about how _not_ to make this awkward by standing up briefly to get him to lower his jeans, and then the thought of _oh shit, demon dick?!,_ followed by, _he's not wearing any underwear. Holy shit)_.

You blink at his hard cock, the head of it weeping pre-cum. There's a straight, white line, just like his markings, running on the underside of it. It curves up nicely, thick enough that you're sure you're going to need _two_ hands to fully wrap around it, but not particularly long. He's also surprisingly well-trimmed, white pubic hair kept short and neat.

( _Model,_ your brain supplies.)

And _oh. It's not any different than a human dick_.

"Never seen a dick before?" Mammon asks, the barest hint of laughter in his tone. His question catches you off-guard and you feel your face flush when you realize that you were _staring_ and it looks like you have no idea what you're doing.

"No it's not that, it's just _—"_

 _"—Or_ is it that it doesn't compare to what you've had before, hm?" Mammon leers at you, and you're having a hard time keeping up with his shifts, _fuck_. "Bet you'd like that, huh? Me stuffing ya full?"

You let out a small sound, the idea of Mammon fucking you, well. Now that it's on the table...

( _No!_ that rational part of your brain seems to have taken your current empty-headedness in order to talk some sense into you, _he's a demon for fucks sakes, don't do something dumb)._

 _(But,_ you argue, _I'm already on my way to jerking him off)._

 _(Anything more dumb_ , it says. To which you reply, _oh, okay. That makes sense, thanks brain)._

You run the back of your knuckles along the underside of his dick, just the barest touch from his balls all the way to the head of dick. You pull back your other hand away from his grip, and he let's you. Leaning back further into the couch, blue eyes looking at you while you look at his cock. He settles his other hand on your waist.

A small shiver of anticipation runs down your spine. Something about being watched by him, having his undivided attention has you feeling a certain way. You're not sure if the idea excites you or scares you. 

"Get on with it," he drawls, "or was you goint t' be a liar?"

You roll your eyes, gripping the corona of his dick and running your thumb across the slit with the edge of your nail. His breath hitches, and he let's out a breathy groan. 

"That's what I thought," you mutter. 

The thing is, even as you begin to stroke him, the blood on your hands does absolute _shit_. His pre-cum is easing the friction just the tiniest bit, and you're half tempted to just use more of his blood to ease the way _—_ Mammon doesn't seem to mind it at first, the roughness of being jerked off, slow and and hard, with barely any slick. In fact, he seems to be thoroughly enjoying it. 

But at some point (because you really can't help yourself but look up at him, watching his reactions. The way he's not attempting to hide the groans, the moans, the little hisses of air through gritted teeth when you squeeze particularly hard) the pleasurable-pain eases into discomfort, and you stop at the base of his dick. Eyeing it, and then him.

Mammon groans, and he sounds completely out of breath. His voice is rough and low as he cants his hips upwards, trying to get you to move. His eyes had closed at some point, throat bared out to you as he let you work him to orgasm.

"What's the big deal," he complains, one hand from your waist sneaking down to grab yours in order to move your hand. You stop him with a warning squeeze, both hands wrapped around his dick. He makes a displeased sound, bares his teeth. "Why'd you stop?"

"I'm hurting you." You say.

Mammon groans, frustrated. "You're worried about that _now?"_

 _He does have a point._ You bite your lip. "It's too dry, I can't do much."

Mammon let's out a huff of air through his nose. He opens his eyes, sits up just the tiniest bit. When he looks at you, you notice just how sweaty he looks, how flushed. His eyes are dilated again, heavy on the arousal. 

"You're a smart human," he says, "figure something out."

You narrow your eyes at him. For some reason that sounded like a threat.

You think about your choices. For obvious reasons, asking him if he has lube around is definitely out of the question (you figure he's going to sneer at you and ask you if you think he's always ready to bust a nut after being beaten to shit by his own brother).

(You have a half-a-mind to ask him if he can conjure up lube, because if he can do fire, you're pretty certain there has to be a lube magic spell somewhere).

You only think about sucking him off for a split second before you remember that your hands are caked in dried-blood, and so is his dick. You're not too keen on having blood inside your mouth. That's too much, even for you.

Instead you settle for the next option, and pray to whatever celestial being is watching over you (and judging your horrible, _horrible_ life choices) that it doesn't look as unsexy as you think it might be. You gather as much saliva as you can and then spit on his dick. 

Mammon let's out a surprised noise, but that's replaced quickly when you begin to jerk him off again.

"Fuck," he says. "Fuck _—yeah_ , just like that."

At some point you only end up using one hand to jerk him off, and the friction get's better, easier, as his pre begins to leak more frequently. He likes it when you can drag your nails against his dick, likes it when you get rough enough that you're worried you're hurting him by how _tight_ you're squeezing him, but Mammon is _vocal_ and let's you know just _how well you're doing, fuck yeah just like that baby._

The only sound in the living room now is the obscene sound of your fingers wrapped around his slick dick, going up and down as his own hips cant up to meet your movements with hasty, and powerful trusts, the sound of his moaning and groans, and _praises._ He doesn't seem to mind just how quiet you are, which works out just fine because you're too busy looking at him to do anything else.

 _Has he always been this attractive?_ You don't recall him looking this good, but here the two of you are. His white hair sticks to his forehead with sweat, and his lips are swollen with how hard he's biting himself to keep his moans from slipping out _—_ which is something you don't appreciate because he sounds _so good_ , and so you make it your mission to twist your hand just that _exact_ way that has him shakily moaning under you, thighs tense and tail curling impossibly harder around your ankle, most likely cutting off blood but it's fine _—_

It's fine because he's under _you,_ he's letting _you_ get him off. You will never tell him this in a million years, but it's doing something to your self-esteem right now. 

"Shit," Mammon's moan gets gruffer, " _shit—fuck. Please,_ keep going, I'm so fucking c-close."

And who are you to deny him when he begs so prettily?

"Y-you _—"_ you wince at the stutter, but continue forward. Your own lower body grinding against his thigh, minuscules movements, " _—_ you're doing so good."

Mammon whines at that, louder. It sounds different than all the other moans.

Well _fuck._

" _So good,_ Mammon." Your movements get rougher, harder. Your world goes into a single focus point, and that's watching Mammon's face as he struggles to keep his eyes open, lips parted in little sounds of _ah-ah-ah._ "You're making me so happy, so proud right now."

A full body shiver leaves him, the hands on either side of you tighten to the point where it hurts enough to make you wince, but he doesn't seem to notice. You realize you'll have bruises come tomorrow morning, and the thought makes you lightheaded.

"You wanna cum?" 

Mammon's answer comes in the form of a very desperate sounding moan. 

You swallow the spit in your throat, and with your free hand, you place it just above a nasty looking bruises someplace near the side of his stomach. You suck in a breath, say goodbye to any chances of you coming out alive from this because this might just be the most single _idiotic_ idea you've had just far, and you _dig_ your nails right into the bruises.

Mammon honest to God, _wails,_ and it's so loud that you have to improvise because you're not a dumbass like he is and you _remember_ that if Mammon's awake at this hour, _Lucifer_ is also probably awake and you _really_ don't want to explain your sexual activities to him. So you lean forward and kiss him. It takes him a second to catch on, and when he kisses you it's sloppy and messy and _wet_ and your nails digging against the bruises with increasing force as you keep jerking him off is probably not helping anything.

But then Mammon's hips begin to stutter. You feel his muscles contract, his mouth panting against you as ropes of thick, white, cum shoot out in potent spurts. Some of it lands up to your neck, chest, but the rest dribbles out to make a mess in the space between the two of you. You don't stop jerking him off, but you do ease on the pressure, easily coaxing him through his orgasm.

Mammon's eyes are shut close and his lips go slack against yours, head leaning back until it's supported by the couch. His chest is heaving, and his hips keep meeting up to meet your lax movements. It's only when it get's too overwhelming for him that he tries to pull away.

"It's too much," he whines, pliant, and just the barest hint of discomfort in his voice. "Fuck, it's so good but _—"_

Which is fine. It's okay. You pull back just a bit, surprised to see just how much he's come. You pump him three more times, just to see him shift in overstimulation, before you let him go.

You bring your hands up to eye-level, noticing the thick cum coating your fingers, your hand. Under it, just the barest hint of blood.

"What are ya smiling at?" Mammon grunts, and you blink back down at him. You hadn't realized you were smiling.

"Nothing," you say. You don't think he'd take it too kindly if you told him you're thinking about how many more orgasms it'll take before he's a crying, whimpering mess under you. 

A beat of silence passes over the two of you. You greedily take an eyeful of what's presented to you, and it's only after the after-glow of sex starts to leave his body that you realize he must feel uncomfortable and disgusting what's with the bruising and the blood and his cum. He looks like such a fucking mess.

"You want me to..." He makes a vague motion towards you, eyes cast downward where you've been unconsciously grinding against his thigh. 

You try to not be too eager when you nod, but there's a flicker of smug satisfaction across his pretty baby-blue eyes that has you feeling you might've missed out on that front.

Still...

"We need to get cleaned up first." 

**Author's Note:**

> someone take my laptop away from me and then come yell at me on my [twitter](https://twitter.com/crystalbases).
> 
> i keep promoting my twitter like i'm not a whole fucking mess on that app lmao. also my work is never beta read, i'll get around to fixing the typos/editing some sentences that read weirdly,,,, later.


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